“I believe I have also advised caution. There are many kinds of pain, remember, Adeline. And family”—he pointed to my sister’s handwritten letters—“any family, but particularly your family, Adeline, has a gift for inflicting pain. If you’ve read the file on Harry Day, if you truly looked at those photos, then you know that as well as I do.”

“We’re just exchanging a couple of notes,” I said, glancing at my sister’s letters. “Maybe once a month, like pen pals. It’ll be okay.”

“It won’t remain letters. Sooner or later, your sister will ask to see you. And you’ll go, Adeline. It’s times like this, I truly wish you could feel pain. Because maybe then, you’d have better instincts for self-preservation.”

“Everything will be all right, Dad. Trust me, I know what I’m doing.”

Then I’d turned away from him. Conversation over. Conclusions made. Resolve strengthened.

And maybe I would’ve held out. Maybe I would’ve stuck to letters. Except then my father died. My family that had been made dissolved. I stood alone in the world, and even if I couldn’t feel pain, I felt the ache of loneliness just fine.

Six months later, I paid my first visit to the Massachusetts Correctional Institute, sitting across from my sister. It turned out, as always, my adoptive father hadn’t been wrong: My big sister did have a particular gift for inflicting pain.

But I liked to think, as most little sisters probably do, that I have my own special talents as well.

• • •

HAVING CANCELED OUT MY DAY upon receiving news of Shana’s incident, I was surprised to show up at my office and discover Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren standing before my closed door.

For a moment, walking out of the elevator, office key in hand, I paused, feeling a shiver of dread. The detective’s clothing, dark slacks and cream-colored sweater, were consistent with a woman on the job. And given the morning newspaper’s graphic article regarding the two recent Boston murders, my own family’s past . . .

Then I noticed the way Detective Warren stood, or really sagged against the wood-paneled wall, her pale face set in a grim mask of finely etched pain.

“Are you all right?” I asked carefully, resuming my approach.

“I’m here, aren’t I? What do you think?” Her tone was harsh, her left arm tucked protectively against her torso. I judged the detective to have had a bad night and a worse morning. Given that the best defense was a strong offense, apparently D. D. Warren had decided to be as offensive as possible.

I kept my own voice neutral as I drew to a halt before her. “Am I confused? I don’t remember us having an appointment. . . .”

“I was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d take a chance, see if you were available.”

“I see. How long have you been waiting?”